December 18, 1998
Oh, my God! I was out to lunch with my old buddy Koski today, bragging about how well my company is doing.
He was the one who doubted me when I told him I was opening my own company. Anyway, my cell phone rang
and it was Dianne, my assistant. She said there were two guys there at the office for a 12:30 p.m. appointment
with me. It's not like me to miss appointments, and I was sure that I had nothing scheduled. It sounded fishy,
and I thought that perhaps it could be those non-profit zealots again. Anyway, I asked her to take a name and
number and I'd call them back to set something up.
Five minutes later, my cell phone rang again. The guy on the other end identified himself as Bob Canada with
the FBI! The next thing he told me was that he was going to be taking me into custody today.
At first, a smile actually came across my face. I was sure that it was my neighbor, Jimmy. So I said,
"Jimmyyyyyyy." Mr. Canada repeated what he had said initially. I listened carefully for any sign of chicanery in
his voice ... none whatsoever. If this guy was faking it, he was good.
He asked me where I was, because he and his partner were going to come and pick me up. I asked him what
this was about. He asked me if I wanted to do this the hard way. I didn't understand what was going on. So I
asked him, "How do I really know that you are with the FBI?" In retrospect, that was a bad question because he
then told me that he would turn on his car's lights and sirens if it would make me feel any better. I immediately
told him that I was in the town of White Bear Lake. For my safety I asked if I could meet him at the police station
there. He said that was fine but that I should wait in the parking lot and not go inside. Now it really began to
sound fishy. I had Koski follow me there and hang around just in case they weren't really FBI. So, I hopped
into my Benz and went to meet them.
An unmarked sedan with tinted windows wheeled into the White Bear Lake Police Department parking lot. Two
men stepped out and said they were going to take me to FBI Headquarters, downtown Minneapolis. They had
me turn around and put my hands up against the car. They searched me and asked if I had anything stupid
on me, like a knife. All they found was my inhaler. I bet they don't find too many criminals toting asthma
suppressants. They put me in cuffs and sat me in the backseat of their car.
Everything was going in slow motion. I wasn't quite sure how to sit in the backseat of a car while wearing
handcuffs. You have to sort of shift to the left or right while putting your coupled hands opposite from the way
you are leaning. It took me a few minutes to discover this listing technique so at first I sat on my hands and
they twisted into the cold, tight metal clasps. My wrists still hurt tonight.
It was while I was being transported to FBI Headquarters that they explained that I was being charged with
conspiracy to commit mail fraud, wire fraud and money laundering. I couldn't for the life of me think of what they
were talking about. And they wouldn’t give me any details. At first I thought maybe it was about Eduardo or
some trouble one of my other loan officers got themselves into. What a great way to find out. For a fleeting
moment, I thought it might have something to do with Milt. But I dismissed that quickly, as I hadn't spoken with
him or his buddies in more than four years.
We turned off the busy downtown street and into an alley. That’s when the sounds and bustle of the city went
on mute. It felt like a Batman setting — skyscrapers were bordering this narrow little alley and thrusting up into
the clouds, a garbage dumpster up ahead added to the setting. We pulled up to what looked a little bit like a
loading dock. A man stepped up to the car. He was well-dressed. He wasn’t wearing a nice suit like I was, but
he certainly dressed sharper than Mr. Canada and his sidekick.
As we rode up the elevator, the well-dressed man told me that I was there because of my association with my
buddy Milt and the rest of the gang. He wasn’t mad at me. I guess he was just doing his job. I actually felt a bit
relieved after hearing that all this was about Milt. It was at that point I knew I would eventually be able to explain
this and that everything was going to be all right. I always knew there was something slippery about Milt and his
gang and I told the well-dressed man that. He told me that I probably shouldn’t talk anymore.
They took a picture of me holding a sign with my height, weight and birthday printed on it. It’s amazing, they’d
prepared the sign ahead of time, which means that they probably knew this morning that they were going to
nab me today. There also seems to be a real skill to fingerprinting. After they press your digit onto the ink pad,
they have to roll your finger across a specific space on a piece of cardboard. As the “fingerprintee,” you can't
be too stiff, rigid or tense because the print will smudge. My “fingerprintor” and I went through three sheets of
cardboard. Yeah, I was starting to get scared.
They put me in a room with chairs and a phone. It looked and smelled like a junior high school classroom. No
expensive furniture here. I have no idea why the government would choose to skimp here. Anyhow, they said I
could make some calls.
I got a hold of Marty at the office. I explained to him what was going on, and he thought I was kidding. I told him
that everything would be okay as soon as they came back into the room. I told him that I’d have a chance to
explain everything. Marty seemed cool with that. I’m glad I told him about Milt last year. See, it's always good
to tell your business partner about your past. Now Marty knows that I wasn't kidding around about my stories
and suspicions of Milt. I asked Marty to meet with the copier guy, who was showing up at 2:00 p.m., if I wasn’t
back by then.
The well dressed-man came back in and put the cuffs back on. He closed them with my hands in front of my
body instead of behind my back. Apparently, he was being kind because I guess they’re not really supposed to
do that. He still didn't want to hear my explanations about my non-involvement with Milt. He said he was in a
hurry because he wanted to get me in front of the U.S. Magistrate before he went home for the day. If your title
is “Magistrate”, I guess you can leave the office as early as you want.
Once in the Federal Courthouse, they brought me to a small holding area just outside the courtroom with
several little jail cells. The well dressed-man put me into one of the cells and shut the cell door. At least he was
nice enough to take the cuffs off while I waited in there.
I looked around this little jail cell and saw a stainless steel toilet and sink. I realized I was getting dizzy, so I sat
down on a cold, stainless steel platform. I guess this was supposed to be the bed. It looked like a
veterinarian's examination table. I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't know what was going on with
anything. I was afraid that the Magistrate might have gone home already. I suppose they could’ve kept me in
there overnight.
Several hours later (I know it was only a few minutes but all this was progressing in slow motion) the guard or
the bailiff or whoever he was brought me into the courtroom. I couldn’t believe it when I saw Milton and his
brother Rodney. My God, I hadn’t seen any of those guys in years! They still looked the same. I wondered
where Milt was or if he was getting in trouble for all this stuff too.
My name was called and I went up front and center. The United States Federal Magistrate was sitting in his
perch behind the bench. It seemed as though he was 100 feet above me. When he looked down at me, his
little old head eclipsed the United States Seal of Justice, on the wall behind him. He pointed his crooked finger
at me and said something like, "Jerome Mayne, how do you plead to the fraud charges brought against you by
the United States of America?"
(read the rest of this letter as well as the rest of the book by clicking the link below)
Excerpt from the book
Diary of a White Collar Criminal
Diary of a White Collar Criminal
Copyright © 2001-2010 Jerome Mayne and Fraudcon, Inc. All rights reserved.
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